


Mental Wounds Not Healing

by KhakiAnon



Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Crying, Dummy to the rescue, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Hyperventilation, PTSD, Panic Attack, Refrence to using alcohol as a coping mechanism, Self harm (punching), Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-09 04:16:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16442810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KhakiAnon/pseuds/KhakiAnon
Summary: In for 5. Hold for 2. Out for 7.————In which Tony suffers a panic attack while working in his lab.





	Mental Wounds Not Healing

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own any of Marvel or anything. 
> 
> Sorry if it’s out of character. It’s a very vulnerable moment, perhaps too much so for his character. But I relate to Tony a lot, and if this can happen to me, maybe it can happen to Tony. After all, Tony’s been through worse than I have. I don’t drink though.  
> Woah I come cross as a mess on ao3. Writing is a coping mechanism for me, okay?  
> Hope you enjoy!

_“Fuck.”_

It wasn’t working. He just couldn’t solve it today. The surface of his desk was cool, and he put the palm of his left hand upon it. He shut his eyes against the images that flooded him, but the images weren’t in front of him. They were in his mind; so while it did wonders in cancelling out the overwhelming amount of other information he was processing, it really did nothing to dispel the traumatic array of thoughts. He was too aware of his chest. As though he could feel the edges of each piece of embedded shrapnel. As though he could feel their movements with each breath he took. He inhaled sharply, his chest feeling tight. Opening his eyes, he set the soldering iron down. Both palms on the desk, he pushed away from it slightly so he knew he could escape if he needed. He swallowed, taking another long breath. 

_The shrapnel, I can feel it, I can feel it, I can...this— this is how it felt when falling, the crushing— the wormhole, this is how it felt, the light headedness, the lack of air—_

“Perhaps a small redesign of circuit GX5 will enable the—“

“Wait— just a...” 

He wanted to say “just a second there J...” in his usual chirpy tone, but he didn’t have the air. 

_In for 5. Hold for 2. Our for 7._

He tried, but the memories of the voices. All around him. Worried faces, voices. Yinsen. Disapproving faces. His father. Angry, abusive voices. The expanse of space he expected to die in. The people, screaming. The other Avengers, looking at him expectantly. He couldn’t breathe. He shut his eyes again; the hum of the lamp was too much. A loose contact on the plate.

_Too intrusive—_

“Sir?”

“Hold up, J—“

“Breathe, sir.”

“NOT _NOW,_ JARVIS!” 

He _couldn’t_ breathe.   
He wheeled further backward in his chair. He didn’t know where he wanted to go, but he needed to do something. His head was too light, his legs were too weak, his breathing was too shallow, his chest was too tight. Sliding off his chair, he stumbled away a few steps, then promptly fell to his knees a little away from the desk. Glad for the contact with the cold floor, he placed his shaking hands against it. 

“S-“ He was cut off by a breath. “Sorry, J.” 

Jarvis remained silent, hoping it would be best. Instead of making conversation, he lowered the thermostat. The genius often recovered quicker if he was in a cooler environment. Tony sat there, hunched on the floor, shaking and gasping for breath. The thoughts and images were too much, and he couldn’t regain control of his breathing. Jarvis thought he heard a quieter, muttered apology, but his mics may have picked up interference instead. 

Suddenly, Tony’s form stilled. It was only momentary: Just as Jarvis took advantage of the silence to utter his dismissive acknowledgement of the apology, Tony landed a punch to his own upper thigh. He did it again, hitting his hip, his lower abdomen, his thigh again. He grimaced, but did so again. 

“Sir...” Jarvis tried, but it fell on deaf ears. The underside of Tony’s fist connected with his forearm, then landed again on his other thigh. Dummy’s arm waved uselessly in the background. 

“Sir!” The AI’s maker then held his head and rocked forwards, barely containing a frustrated cry. 

“SIR!” Jarvis pleaded, louder and sharper than usual. He got a shuddered exhale and, after a while, a muttered “fuck” by way of response. 

The man’s breathing had calmed down now, and he wiped at his face with his sleeves. 

_“Fuck.”_

He was frustrated. With himself, more than anything. He was frustrated with his limited ability to control himself. To cope. That one had been bad. He felt a dull ache in his thighs, and his lungs felt paper thin. As a whole, he felt fragile. He felt like curling up on the floor and sleeping. Or dying. 

In that moment, he didn’t care if he lived or died. 

He took a moment to just sit there, embracing the dull aches as they both worsened him and reminded him that he was in control. He could take his own life if he wanted. A sob escaped him.

“Please breathe, sir.” Jarvis urged gently, a broken tone to his voice. This time, Tony nodded. He managed to breathe deeply, disrupted only by the occasional triple intake of breath that accompanies a hard cry. He bowed his head, closing his eyes. He felt so out of touch with himself, as though he wasn’t really there. Or maybe he was, but the rest of the world wasn’t. As though he’d just woken up from a bad dream, and was stuck in that moment of disorientation which comes with being in limbo between sleep and wakefulness. Who panicked about fear of imminent failure and death, only to feel nonchalant about ones’ morality by the end of it? 

_If some kind of freak accident happens right now... It would probably be for the best._

The thought was enough to bring fresh tears. Confusion and frustration, mainly. He knew the value of life. He’d nearly lost it so many times. He’d taken it from others, and kept it from being taken from them, too. How could he have such a lackadaisical approach to morality right now? 

It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling. Not by any means. It varied in intensity, and took many forms - as if to keep him on his toes - but he could usually recognise it. Recognition was not acceptance, and he still couldn’t understand the feeling. It was scary, how much he wanted to give in to a floating, fleeting feeling of nothing. He imagined his heart stopping, his body paling. He’d never act on it though. Not so far, anyway. Somehow, just imagining it was comforting enough. Scary, too. But at least the images he conjured up himself were within his control, unlike the intrusive ones. Perhaps the ones he imagined were actually just as intrusive as the ones of the cave. It was all too confusing. He was too tired for this. 

He dragged himself to his feet. He didn’t want to feel this way. 

_Fuck this._

The sudden chink of glass broke the silence, accompanied by the sound of a lone ice cube and the pouring of half a glass of scotch. He knew it wasn’t a good coping mechanism. He knew it was a bad path to go down. 

He knew he didn’t want to be like his father.

_Just one glass. Just to distract myself, just to slow down my thoughts._

Jarvis had seen it all before, but he noted that things were improving. Strange as that sounded. Unfortunately, the punching seemed to replace a glass or two; but at least the punching was less frequent than the drinking had been, when it was at its worst. Neither one was a good method, but at least the man seemed to keep more awareness of himself with each attack. It seemed to consume him less and less each time... on the whole. 

Wordlessly, he sat down at his desk again, glass in hand. Not knowing what to say, Jarvis communicated with Dummy. The sound of servos filled the silent space behind Tony, and while he’d normally have looked due to his hyper vigilance, he didn’t tonight. He was quite certain it was Dummy, anyway, and if it wasn’t? 

_Probably for the best._

He mulled that thought over, preparing to take a swig, when Dummy’s claw came into view. His claw was outstretched, holding an empty glass. Tony gave a weak smile, and leant forward to clink glasses.

Trust Jarvis and dummy to figure out a way to make the point of “it’s not good to drink alone”, “I’ll show you that you’re not alone”, and cheer up his mood at the same time. He huffed a laugh - devoid of any real spark - but went along with it anyway. 

“Cheers.” He said softly. Dummy whirred happily in response. 

In that moment, he felt less alone. He still felt empty, and washed out, and distant. But less alone. He retracted his glass, but took a moment to think before putting it to his mouth. Fragile as his body may feel, his disorientated mind managed to ground itself. Perhaps he really would just have one glass, and perhaps it would just be to relax a bit. The liquid’s once devastating purpose now morphed into one of enjoying what remained of a quiet, if eventful, night. Maybe things weren’t so bad.

“Thanks, Dummy.” 

He winced as Dummy’s happy claw rotation almost resulted in the loss of a glass. 

“Thanks, J.” 

“There’s no need to thank me, sir.”

Jarvis really didn’t feel he’d done enough to help Tony cope. Hopefully they’d discuss it some other time. 

As Tony finally relaxed into his seat, he sighed. Things would be better in the morning... or in a few days, at least.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you thought!  
> Title is lyrics from Ozzy Osbourne’s “Crazy Train”. 
> 
> If you’re feeling like Tony right now, I’d be Dummy. Or Jarvis. :) 
> 
> (That wasn’t a chat up line.)


End file.
